Chapter 33
JULIAN
The drive from Tribeca to Chinatown takes eleven minutes. I spend the entire time thinking about the size of a lentil.
That’s what the internet says. The baby at six weeks is the size of a lentil. And it’s when the heartbeat starts, when cells begin dividing, when the tiny person inside of her begins to take shape.
I’ve negotiated arms deals and shipping routes, decided whether men live or die. But none of it, not one second of it, has ever felt as terrifyingly consequential as knowing that Lyra is carrying my child.
My child.
It still hasn’t settled in my mind. It’s too new, too strange. Almost like a foreign language that I’m learning how to navigate through.
Ethan is in the passenger seat, running surveillance from his phone. The agreement with Lyra is that, if she’s home, Ethan or his guards are with her. If she’s out of the apartment, Ethan doesn’t leave her side.
All the same, I’m nervous as hell about leaving her alone. The penthouse is as secure as a bank vault, but that doesn’t matter to me. I should be with her.
Two hours. That’s how long I told her I’d be gone for.
She’d looked at me from the couch, with her hand on her stomach, and told me to be careful.
There was worry in her eyes when she said it, as if she was acutely aware of the possibility that the father of her child might leave and never come back.
I stop on Mott Street. Ethan gets out and checks the block, the rooftops, the parked cars.
“Clean,” he says. “As far as I can tell.”
“As far as you can tell.”
“This is Chinatown. Clean is a relative term.”
The address Lee gave me for our meeting is a teahouse sandwiched between two three-story walk-ups that look like they haven’t been renovated since the eighties. I open the door to a narrow stairway drenched in fluorescent lighting, the scent of oolong thick in the air.
Not my ideal choice for a meeting place. I see it as a red flag.
The room at the top of the stairs is small.
There are six tables, all empty, except for one.
Mrs. Lee is seated with her back to the wall, a small porcelain cup in front of her.
Her posture is ramrod straight, her eyes hidden behind large, dark, round sunglasses.
Cantonese pop music plays on a small sound system.
She’s slim and in her late fifties. She’s impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a mandarin collar, her black hair cut into a sharp bob that frames a slim, sculpted face. Two men stand on either side of her, hands folded in front of them—the universal posture of hired guns.
“Mr. Volkov.” She doesn’t stand. “Please. Sit.”
I subtly nod to Ethan, letting him know to hang back. He nods in response, standing by the door as I approach the table and take a seat across from her.
“I was hoping to see Mr. Yang.”
That is true, but I knew the odds of him taking an international trip to meet with me were slim. Still.
“Mr. Yang sends his regards. He’s in Shanghai and won’t be traveling unless circumstances require it.” She pours tea into a second cup and slides it slowly toward me. “I speak for him, as you are well aware.”
“I’m aware that’s the arrangement. What I’m wondering, however, is if our arrangement still holds.”
There’s a slight pause, followed by a micro-expression of anger and surprise blended together. It quickly fades, but I catch it.
“Of course, it holds, Mr. Volkov. Why wouldn’t it?”
I take a slow sip of my tea, then set down my mug as I casually glance around.
“Because the last time I sat across from Mr. Yang in Beijing, we agreed on certain terms. Those terms included Pacific shipping corridors being opened to Volkov operations in exchange for exclusive distribution rights through our Eastern Seaboard network, among other things. These terms were negotiated with Yang—directly and in person—over the course of fourteen months.”
“And those terms remain in effect.”
“Do they? Because I’m having some difficulty reconciling those terms with the fact that Chinese nationals connected to Triad infrastructure have tried to kill me three times in the past month."
Lee’s expression doesn’t change—another red flag. A woman hearing that her organization’s assets have been used in assassination attempts should show some alarm or anger.
But Lee shows nothing. She sips her tea. It all seems so… practiced.
“That’s a very serious accusation, Mr. Volkov.”
“It’s not an accusation; it’s a fact. I have shell casings, traffic camera footage, registration information, and facial recognition.
All of it links the assailants to a front company in Flushing that your organization uses for logistics.
The same company was flagged in connection with a vehicle that tried to run my girlfriend off the freeway two weeks ago. ”
Girlfriend. I suppose that’s the only word that fits.
“Your girlfriend.” She sets down her cup of tea. “The Thibodeaux woman.”
Something about the way Lee says her name makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Another red flag. Lee knows who Lyra is. She’s been paying attention.
“Mr. Volkov, I assure you that Mr. Yang would never authorize action against a partner of the Triads. If these individuals are connected to our business, then they are acting without authorization. I will personally investigate and report my findings to Mr. Yang.”
“When?”
“These things take time.”
“I don’t have time, Mrs. Lee. The Bratva council is in four days. I need to stand in front of nine syndicate heads and present our deal as operational and stable. If Yang’s own people are shooting at me, the deal doesn’t just look unstable—it looks dead.”
“I understand the urgency.” Her tone is measured and calm, the tone of a woman who is in no rush and doesn’t intend to be. “I will look into the matter before I brief Mr. Yang. No need to alarm him prematurely with unverified intelligence.”
Before she briefs Yang. Not at the same time. Not right away. Before.
She’s filtering information, deciding what Yang hears and when he hears it.
“Mrs. Lee, I’d prefer to speak to Mr. Yang directly. This matter warrants his personal attention.”
“Mr. Yang is not available for direct communication at this time. As I said, I speak for him.” She folds her hands neatly on the table.
“However, if it would ease your concerns, I will personally attend the Bratva council on Mr. Yang’s behalf.
I will confirm the Triad’s support for your leadership and the terms of our Pacific agreement, publicly and on the record. ”
It’s exactly what I need. That sort of in-person confirmation would shut down Dobrov, push Alexander aside, and give me the stability I need to protect Lyra and the baby.
It’s also too easy.
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Lee.”
She nods. “We are partners, Mr. Volkov. Partners support each other.” She smiles—prim and practiced.
“I’ll have my team send the council logistics to your office, as well as the information about the attackers.” I stand. “Thank you for your time, and for the tea.”
I turn to leave.
“Mr. Volkov.”
I glance back over my shoulder.
“A word of advice, if I may. The situation with your brother, the internal conflict within the Volkov family, it is not lost on the organization watching from the outside. Instability invites… opportunity. For everyone.”
“Is that a warning, Mrs. Lee?”
“It’s an observation.” She picks up her cup. “Safe travels.”
I nod to Ethan. The stairs creak under our weight as we make our way down. When we exit onto Mott Street, the nightlife is in full swing.
“Well?” he says.
“She’s going to attend the council and affirm Yang’s support publicly.”
“That’s good.”
“It’s too good.” I unlock the car with a press of the fob. “She didn’t want me talking to Yang.”
“But she’s the proxy. Isn’t it normal for her to relay everything?”
“Not something this important. Someone tries to take out your international partner not once, not twice, but three times? That’s not information you wait to be passed along. And she barely flinched when I told her about the information we had on the shooters.”
“You think she already knew.”
“Yes, and I also think there’s a damn good chance she’s involved. How deep, I can’t say. But Mrs. Lee isn’t operating on the same page as Mr. Yang.”
Ethan is quiet for a moment as he puts it together.
“If she goes off script at the council—”
“Then we have a much bigger problem than Dobrov.”
I start the car. The drive back to Tribeca takes fourteen minutes. I spend every one of them thinking about Lyra, her hand on her stomach, the little lentil underneath.
Four days. One council. A Chinese intermediary whom I don’t trust one goddamn bit. A brother who seems to want me out of the picture—or dead.
Bring it on. I’ve never been more ready in my life.